


The Adventure Of Black Peter (1895)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [148]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Allergies, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Cats, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Theft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 18:51:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11408439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A most unusual client, a most unusual set of charges for a successful case, and a horribly embarrassed Victorian lady as Sherlock agrees to hunt down a missing moggy.





	The Adventure Of Black Peter (1895)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ginger_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_angel/gifts).



During our recent second dose of 'papal business', I had had cause to mention that I was strongly allergic to cats. I should have known better, as clearly the Lord was ever watchful for an opportunity to make my life that bit more difficult. Our next case involved not just a feline shedding-machine, but also one of the more unusual clients to sit in the famous fireside chair at 221B Baker Street.

My literary career was such at this time that I had dropped to just doing one day a week at the surgery, usually Mondays (plus of course emergency call-outs and treating certain older and rich clients), in order to devote more time to my writings. I was also feeling a little happier since the English weather had belatedly seemed to remember that it had seasons other than wet, wet, wet and wetter, so it was a warm July day that saw our landlady ascend to announce our latest client. Mrs. Harvelle looked strangely uncertain, which considering the depth and breadth of humanity that she had ushered into our rooms over the years, was a little worrisome. At least, until we saw our visitor.

She was.... short. And young.

“Miss Emily Madeley”, Mrs. Harvelle announced, before withdrawing. 

The girl she left behind could not have been more than ten years old, a pretty blonde thing in a white dress that looked like it belonged in an advertisement rather than out on a busy London street. She looked at me thoughtfully.

“You are the taller one, so you must be Doctor Watson”, she said after a short pause.

“I am”, I said, “and this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock had been sat opposite me at the table, and stood up to bow to our guest before escorting her over to the fireside chair. Once she was seated, he sat opposite her, and she eyed him thoughtfully.

“This is where you remark that I am very young”, she said pointedly. I suppressed a smile at her frankness.

“Madam”, Sherlock said courteously, “if that were the limit of my powers, you would not be here to request my services this fine day. How may I be of assistance?”

“I wish you to find Blackie. My cat.”

To his credit, Sherlock did not look surprised. Then again, he had been asked to find even more trivial things for people. Far too often, in my opinion. 

“This 'Blackie' has gone missing?” Sherlock asked.

“He has been taken”, she said firmly. “He is a Siamese cat, one year and five months old, and Mother takes him to shows and things, which he absolutely hates. He has a black head and tail; only three of his legs are fully black, the off-forepaw being white. His full name is Black Peter of Novgorod, which is silly, but then I suppose that's grown-ups for you!”

I smiled at her open disdain. However, further conversation was prevented by a second knock at the door, and Mrs. Harvelle ushered in a frantic-looking woman who sighed in relief when she saw the girl.

“Emily!” she said reprovingly. “I _told_ you to wait outside the jewellery store for me. Why did you not?”

“I wished to see Mr. Holmes and his friend”, she said blithely, apparently unconcerned at her mother's very visible perturbance. The lady sighed.

“I must apologize, gentlemen”, she said ruefully. “My name is Mrs. Madeley, and this is my daughter Emily. I _tried_ telling her that you do not investigate lost pets, but she is _so_ determined when she gets her mind set on something. I am so sorry that she has troubled you.”

Sherlock looked at her with his head tilted to one side, an expression that I knew denoted confusion.

“It is true that we _rarely_ take such cases”, Sherlock corrected her, “but since your daughter has put such an effort into bringing the matter to my attention, then the least I can do is to investigate it as far as possible. Though I should say”, he continued, turning to the girl, “that contrary to the stories the good doctor writes, not all my cases end successfully. It may be the case that your cat cannot be recovered for some reason. But yes, I am inclined to look into your case.”

The girl looked insufferably smug, whilst her mother looked even more worried.

“But Mr. Holmes, we cannot....”

“There will be no charge unless the cat is safely returned”, Sherlock cut in. “Should I manage to achieve that end, I shall require Miss Emily to do two things. First, to provide me a picture of the cat, that she has drawn herself, as a memento of the case. And second, to promise never to run off without her mother's permission again - even if it is to see a famous detective! Those shall be my charges for this case.”

“Thank you!” the girl cried. Sherlock gestured for me to get my notebook, and once I was ready and had shown Mrs. Madeley to a seat, he turned back to the lady's daughter. I readied my pen.

“One of the most important things in solving a crime is factual evidence”, he said. “I need as much information as possible. Now, on what day was this _horrible_ crime perpetrated?”

“Yesterday”, the girl said. “I played with Blackie before I went to school in the morning, up to half-past eight. He was gone when I came home at just after three o'clock.”

She stared pointedly at her mother, who blushed.

“We recently moved to “The Firs”, a large detached house in St. John's Wood”, Mrs. Madeley said. “Emily is our oldest child; we also have two sons, John and Peter, both of whom are away at boarding-school. The house is in Oak-Tree Close, not far from St. John's Wood Road Station.”

“What servants do you have there?” Sherlock asked.

“The cook, Mrs. Callington. Kay the parlourmaid and Bessie the housemaid. Thomas, my husband's valet, and June, my own personal maid. Drayton the butler. Oh, and the nanny, Miss Gorringe.”

The girl leaned forward slightly.

“I do not like Miss Gorringe”, she said conspiratorially.

“Emily!” her mother said reprovingly.

“Why not?” Sherlock asked.

“She is creepy. And she wears _make-up!_ ”

I barely managed to turn a laugh into a cough. The girl had said those last words as if the nanny had committed some cardinal crime against humanity. She stared at me suspiciously, but I was (thankfully) saved by Sherlock's next question to her mother.

“Do the servants live in?”

“No”, she said. “George – my husband – chose the house because it was small but had large grounds. Which reminds me, we also have a gardener, John-Paul, but he was away visiting his father that day, who lives over somewhere beyond Harrow.”

“Nevertheless, we shall check him out”, Sherlock said. “We must leave no stone unturned. May I assume that the feline in question was valuable?”

“Extremely”, Mrs. Madeley said. “I have had several offers from people who want to..... er, to make use of him. You know.”

“You mean to breed from him, mummy”, the girl said, causing her poor mother to turn bright red. “I am _eight_ , you know!”

I had to bite my lip at that point. The girl may have been some way from her teenage years, but she could already pull off scornful disdain with aplomb. Her mother looked absolutely mortified, and I caught a twinkle in my friend's blue eyes which I knew denoted his own amusement.

“I think that it would be most useful to visit the scene of the crime”, Sherlock said. “Are you ladies finished with your London shopping for the day?”

“Yes, we are”, Mrs. Madeley said, clearly still surprised that Sherlock had taken her daughter's case. 

“Then if it is acceptable to you, the doctor and I will accompany you both back to St. John's Wood”, Sherlock said with a smile. “I know that he is working hard to document my cases, but a few hours of country air will do wonders for him. It may even improve the scrawl that masquerades as his handwriting!”

I scowled at him for that. And the ladies did not need to laugh, either!

+~+~+

“The Firs” was an unusual house in that, as Mrs. Madeley had correctly described it, it was relatively small compared to its spacious grounds. And my eyes were already watering, although there was not even a cat present. Sherlock turned to Mrs. Madeley.

“Is Blackie a house-cat?” he asked. 

“Most definitely”, she said firmly. “The few times that we offered him the chance to go outside for any period of time, he would take one look and stroll back to his basket.”

“How do your staff feel about him?” Sherlock asked.

“I suppose that the maids are not too fond of all the cat-hair”, the lady said, “but it is their job, after all. Or more Bessie's job, I should say.”

“I will need a list of the full names and addresses of all your staff”, Sherlock said. “Would you be able to write one out for me whilst your daughter shows me the areas that her beloved pet preferred?”

“Of course”, Mrs. Madeley said. “Just be careful in the kitchen, Emily. Mrs. Callington is cooking dinner just now, and you know how she does not like to be disturbed.”

She left us with her daughter and went into a side-room. Miss Madeley showed up the pet room where the cat slept, and Sherlock carefully extracted some hair from the cat's bed and placed it in a small brown envelope, writing 'evidence' on it in capital letters. It clearly impressed our young client, who led us next to the library and then upstairs to the sun-room.”

“Blackie likes the library because it is cool”, she said, “and for when he feels poorly. But this is the only place where he goes outside. He likes to sit in the sun on the balcony, which is sheltered from the wind by the outbuilding over there. Janet or Bessie let him in and out; he knows to go round and paw at a window if he wishes to come back in and they are not here.”

“Might not a thief be able to take him from here?” I asked, looking around at the view. Sherlock shook his head.

“It is too open”, he said, looking into the distance. “Miss Emily, do you know where that path goes?”

She looked to where he was pointing.

“That is the only thing that Mother and Father do not like about the house”, she said with a pout. “A public footpath; our land runs right up to it. Daddy wanted to build a fence next to it to stop people walking onto our property, but the man at the council would not let him.”

“Officious busybodies!” I grunted. “A man should be able to do what he wants on his own land!”

Sherlock was staring out across the land, deep in thought.

“Miss Emily”, he said eventually, “who _feeds_ Blackie?”

“Mrs. Callington”, she said. “Or at least, she prepares the food; she says that cats should be always treated with respect. Blackie doesn't like the kitchen because it is usually either too warm or too cold, so Kay usually puts his food here, and he comes and eats it when he is ready. Although he did go down there more when it was really cold last winter.”

“The maid does not bring his food out here, then?” Sherlock asked. The girl laughed.

“Blackie is a dear, but we would not make the maids wait on him hand and foot!” she said. 

“Hmm”, Sherlock said. “One more question. How is Blackie around strangers?”

“He hates them!" the girl said firmly. “Every time we have guests to the house, he has to be shut away.”

“I see”, Sherlock said. “Miss Emily, I think that it would be an idea if you go and politely approach Mrs. Callington, and ask if it is acceptable for me to ask her some questions at this time, unless she is too busy. We both know how important cooks are these days.”

I was surprised at that, but she duly skipped away. Once she was gone, Sherlock turned to me.

“John”, he said, “I need you to do something for me.”

“Of course”, I said. “What?”

“Whilst I am questioning the cook, who will I suspect have little to tell us, I wish you to measure something. Go to the room below this balcony, and walk fairly quickly from the house over to the nearest point of that footpath. I need to know how long it takes for an adult man to traverse that distance, and what the surface is like. And take a look in the flower-beds beneath the balcony.”

“What am I looking for?” I asked.

“Possibly nothing”, he said. “It is just a hunch.”

I resisted the urge to swat at him. Just.

+~+~+

“It took me ninety-three seconds to reach the path”, I told him when we met up afterwards, “and the ground was firm all the way, so with no rain of late I doubted there would have been any footprints. But someone had been round behind the rhododendron bush on the north side of the balcony; there were footprints leading in and out. Size eight, and a worn shoe.”

“Excellent!” he beamed. “And I was wrong about the cook. She did have some information pertinent to the case.”

“How so?” I asked.

“She told me that someone had set off a firework in the road outside the day the cat was taken”, Sherlock said.

“That is useful information?” I asked dubiously.

“Indeed”, he said. “It brings me closer to solving the case. 

Miss Madeley skipped up to us at that moment.

“Have you solved it yet?” she asked eagerly. Sherlock chuckled.

“I must tell the doctor to refrain from making my craft look too easy”, he smiled. “Miss Emily, you are clearly a young lady of forthright opinions, so I would prefer to ask _you_ certain questions rather than your mother. What does your father do for a living?”

She scrunched up her nose as in distaste.

“Father works in a _bank!_ ” she said glumly. She sounded so depressed at the fact that I nearly laughed.

“Do he or your mother play with Blackie as much as you do?” Sherlock asked. She shook her head

“I do not think that Father likes him much at all”, the girl said. “He has the same sort of thing the doctor does, with the watery eyes and everything. When he thinks that Mother and I are not listening, he calls him 'Citizen Fang'. And Blackie does not like him much either. Mother is much nicer, though she does make him go to those awful shows. And worse, she gets Father to help bathe him first!”

Mrs. Madeley approached us just then, and the girl reddened slightly at her candour. Fortunately her mother seemed not to have overheard, or was tactful enough to pretend.

“I have completed the list that you wanted, Mr. Holmes”, she said. “I am sorry that it took so long.”

“Accurate information is always worth waiting for”, Sherlock said. “Thank you.”

He turned to Miss Madeley. 

“I hope to have some news for you soon”, he said. “I will send you a telegram when that happens, I promise.”

“I believe in you!” she said firmly.

+~+~+

“Why did you ask the question about the cat's eating regimen?” I asked as we waited for the cab to arrive at the house.

“Because there was a small piece of cat food in the corner of the balcony”, Sherlock said. “Someone took the food out there that day, which means that someone wanted the cat to be outside.”

“But the cat goes there anyway!” I objected.

“That is what makes it so interesting”, he smiled.

I glared at him.

+~+~+

We had travelled to “The Firs” from St. John's Wood Road Station, which was on the same line as Baker Street's station. It was only when we passed the station that I realized we were not returning that way. We continued on to a small terraced house just beyond where St. John's Wood gave way to the rather less salubrious Maida Vale district. I looked at Sherlock in surprise.

“The home of one of the servants”, he said. “A hunch.”

“Your hunches are usually accurate”, I observed. “Which one?”

“The valet, Mr. Thomas Jefferson.”

“Why him?” I asked.

“Because he is the obvious suspect”, Sherlock said teasingly.

He would be investigating his own murder from beyond the grave if he carried on like this! Although knowing him, the blue-eyed bastard would probably solve it anyway!

+~+~+

The valet was not at home, but we were met by his wife Mrs. Elizabeth Jefferson, who was nursing a small baby. Sherlock asked her several inconsequential questions (in my opinion), and it seemed that whatever she was using on her child was also provoking a reaction from me, for I found note-taking difficult with my eyes streaming all the time I was there. Sherlock looked sympathetically at me when we left.

“I am sorry about that”, he said. “But at least the case is solved now.”

“Solved?” I asked, stunned. “How?”

“All should become clear tomorrow morning”, he said. “I am expecting a guest at Baker Street then. They will bring the cat.”

I stared at him in astonishment, then annoyance as it became clear that I would have to wait. Again.

Damnation!

+~+~+

A nagging thought had been pecking away at the back of my mind since the start of this case, although I had enough wits about me not to voice it. Typically Sherlock waited until he was on top of me in bed that night, holding me down with ease before he challenged me over it.

“You have been worried about something all day”, he said. “What is it?”

I swallowed nervously. Damnation! I had so hoped he would not notice, and there was no way I could lie to him. Then he breached me with one finger, and I temporarily lost the powers of both speech and coherent thought. This was so not the time, but I had to answer.

“I just thought”, I managed eventually, my eyes watering as he brushed my prostate teasingly, “the case.”

“What about it?” he asked blithely, adding a second finger and starting to scissor me open. I let out the sort of noise usually associated with a mating walrus in severe distress.

“The typical happy family”, I managed eventually. “Husband, wife and three children. What with your family the other week..... well.”

He looked at me in clear bemusement, which was a joke as he now had three fingers inside me.

“Well what?” he asked.

“Do you not ever think that because..... well, us, you missed out on that?” I spluttered.

He froze, and I felt my whole body go cold. Then he slowly began to move his fingers again, and leaned forward.

“John”, he said softly, “I love you more than life itself. The times I was away from you, I was not whole. And I know that if I asked you to go out around London tomorrow wearing your collar, with a cock-ring on and a plug inside of you, you would. Because you love me just as much.”

I should have been shamed by that. Hell, when it came to Sherlock I would have done that and whatever other humiliation he wanted to impose on me. I had no pride as far as he was concerned.

“And that is it”, he said softly.

“What?” I was confused.

“You would do anything I asked”, he said. “I would do anything you asked. But we love each other enough to know that it would be asking, not demanding, and that if the person being asked was uncomfortable, we would withdraw the request at once. We love each other too much to go too far.”

My eyes were watering with all the dust in the room.

“Still”, he said, “perhaps if you are not feeling in the mood...”

“Get inside me, you bastard!” I almost snarled. 

And in one swift movement he did, impaling me on that python of his so that I let out another walrus-like moan of ecstatic pleasure. There was no finesse, no tenderness, just Sherlock driving me straight from zero to orgasm in the shortest possible time. We came simultaneously, my body falling limp and useless whilst his fell untidily on top of me, smearing my come between us. And for once I did not care; I needed him close to me, to counter the nagging fear that I might lose him in some way, next time forever. I knew now that I could not go on without him in such an event. And the last time that I had had that fear, it had proven all too justified.

+~+~+

I woke next morning feeling refreshed, and realized that Sherlock must have cleaned me up at some point. He was now spooning me from behind, and knowing how bad a morning person he was, I knew better than to try to wake him. I valued my life!

Some hours later I was sat writing at my table when I felt a familiar watering in my eyes. I looked around in surprise, but there was nothing there. I was about to ask my friend about it when there was a knock at the door.

“Enter!” Sherlock called out.

A short, sharp-faced man came into the room, somewhat reluctantly I thought. He appeared to be suffering to an even greater degree from the same streaming eyes that I was, but my attention was drawn not to that, nor to the somewhat bedraggled appearance of his clothing. No, it was the angry hissing coming from the cat-basket he was attempting to hold as far away from his person as possible. Sherlock smiled.

“Greetings, Mr. Madeley”, he said politely.

Our guest placed the cat-basket in a corner of the room, then took the fireside seat, still dabbing his eyes. If he was trying to look pitiful to us both, it worked on me. But not, apparently, Sherlock.

“I hardly know where to start”, my friend said coldly. “Theft. The wilful compulsion of a servant to participate in said theft. The emotional distress caused to your own child, and your good lady wife. _You_ , sir, are no gentleman!”

“You do not know what it is like!” the man groaned. “That fanged monster gets everywhere, and it sheds like its life depends on it! My house was no longer my home!”

“That does not excuse your actions”, Sherlock said firmly. “Were it not for the emotional upheaval that would doubtless arise, I would gladly inform your wife of your diabolical behaviour in this matter.”

The man looked horrified.

“You cannot!” he blurted out.

“I can”, Sherlock said firmly. “However, provided you adhere to certain conditions that I am about to impose – and no, sir, they are not negotiable – then I will accept the restoration of the feline to your wife and daughter.”

The man sniffed mournfully.

“First”, Sherlock said, “know that when I restore the cat to your daughter, I will be insisting on regular letters as to its well-being. Should Blackie meet any more ‘problems’ in what I am sure will be a long and happy life at “The Firs”, I may feel compelled to call round and tell your wife everything.”

“Fine!” the man growled. “Is that it?”

“No”, Sherlock said. “I know your sort, sir, and you are never happy unless someone is paying for your mistakes. I shall also be contacting your valet, and assuring him that if you take any punitive action against him, I shall call on your employers and inform them of your thieving tendencies. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes!” the man ground out, wiping his eyes. “I assume that I can leave the wretched thing with you?”

“You may”, Sherlock said. “I hope for your sake that we shall not meet again. Good day, sir.”

Our visitor sniffed, spared one last glare at the cat-basket, and all but fled from the room. I stared at Sherlock in astonishment.

“How did you know that it was him?” I asked. “Or the valet, for that matter?”

“It was obvious”, he said. I swallowed my annoyance.

“Please explain for my future readers”, I managed. And my eyes were watering again. He smiled.

“We were told that the cat did not respond well to strangers”, Sherlock explained, “so only someone he knew could have smuggled him away from the house. Since the master clearly disliked him, that was motive, but Mr. Madeley knew that the cat hated him sufficiently for him not to be able to take him without an almighty fuss. Better to blackmail an unwilling servant into doing it for him. Bringing it here today must have been a special kind of torment, which was why I insisted on it. And we saw that the valet has a young child, so either money was offered as an inducement, or more likely given the man's character, the threat of dismissal.”

“Evil!” I snorted. “No-one should treat servants like that!”

“The valet plants a firework at the front of a house with a slow-burning fuse”, Sherlock went on. “Some little time before it is due to go off, he moves Blackie's food-dish to the balcony, enticing him there. He has also lightly drugged the food, so that the cat will be dozy at the time of the explosion which, as he knows, will temporarily draw everyone to the front of the house. Whilst they are there, he places the cat in a basket and lowers it down to the ground, where there is a flower-bed that hides it. Being off work between eleven and five as he is, he leaves soon after, doubles round the back of the house and collects the basket before taking the cat home.”

“How did you know that he took the cat home?” I asked. He grinned.

“You told me.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“You had the same reaction in the valet’s house as at “The Firs”, yet my questioning elicited the fact that they do not have a cat”, Sherlock explained. “Plus of course the shoes by the door, which were size eight and worn, and which I observed on the way in. Thank you for your help, by the way.”

“Hmm, a portable cat-hair detector”, I grumbled. “I feel so used!”

He just laughed.

+~+~+

Miss Madeley’s reunion with Blackie was a joyous affair; she presented Sherlock with the promised drawing, and said that she would send a second and better one now that she had her darling pet back again. Mrs. Madeley thanked us for our help and they left, mercifully taking the eye-watering fur-ball with them. We had just settled back in when there was another knock at the door, and Miss Madeley put her head around it. We both looked at her in surprise.

“Mother is in the cab”, she said, “and I told her I just wanted to say thank-you again. For everything.”

“Of course”, Sherlock smiled.

She hesitated before speaking again.

“Including Father!” she said with a knowing look, before disappearing off down the stairs. Sherlock chuckled.

An intelligent young lady”, he said. “It was a pleasure doing business with her.”

He placed the picture carefully in his table, and a week later, it was hanging on the wall, properly framed. Black Peter of Novgorod, safely returned home.

+~+~+

One week later, Sherlock presented Mr. Singer and Mrs. Harvelle with a new cat, a young tawny-brown kitten of a thing. My friend reassured me that it was a British Short-hair, one of the few breeds that shed relatively little. I loved him even more for that.

+~+~+

Our next adventure would concern a certain canary-trainer, a descent into Purgatory.... and my run of good luck in not nearly losing the man I love would hit a major bump.


End file.
